


Son of the Right Hand, Son of Sorrow

by Cchambers



Series: The Summer Soldier and the Sunshine Patriot (SS&SP) [3]
Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: American Revolution, Angst, Battle of White Marsh, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Gen, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Let Ben Tallmadge Cry 2021, Liz is going THROUGH it, Minor Character Death, Religious Content, Revolutionary War, just lots of hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28632054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cchambers/pseuds/Cchambers
Summary: “He said you had a question for me, sir?”She felt the urge to meet his eyes, to look at him- even if it wasn’t proper, even if she should have never looked at a man in such a state. She needed to see his face, needed him to see hers and know that she was there for him, she would give him whatever he asked for, whatever she wanted. It was the least she could do.It is all you can do.Elizabeth looked at the major.The major looked at her.“May I stay here, Miss Walker? It will only be for the night- well, the rest of it. It is far too late to ride back to camp and I- it is too dark outside to take Brooks with me. And I can assure you the army will compensate you for your trouble. I promise.”She answered immediately, “Of course, major.”-Or, what happened prior to the events of chapter one of my fic, The Summer Soldier and the Sunshine Patriot.
Relationships: Benjamin Tallmadge/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Summer Soldier and the Sunshine Patriot (SS&SP) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061144
Kudos: 5
Collections: Turn of the Seasons: Winter 2020-2021





	Son of the Right Hand, Son of Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, and welcome to another SS&SP scene! I originally had planned to publish another scene for this collection, but when I wrote this, I knew it was perfect. Technically speaking, this scene could be considered chapter one of SS&SP, but I didn't have this written when I published the fic originally. I've had the idea for quite awhile, but was never to find the words to properly execute it until now. I had a wonderful time writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it! Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are appreciated!

Brooks was dead.

The last time she was in a room where someone died, it was her mother. She remembered it so clearly it was as if the image never left her thoughts, always lurking, always waiting to strike as she walked up the stairs each day, passing her mother’s room. It was November, and it was late at night. Elizabeth had spent the entire day in the chair by the window, watching and waiting- watching as her mother became weaker, as her skin became paler than she ever thought possible, as her coughs became more frequent and her breaths became fainter, softer. What she was waiting for, she didn’t know- but she knew her mother was dying. “I am afraid she will not see tomorrow,” one of her father’s colleagues- who had been there since the night before, when it was too much for him to handle alone- had whispered, thinking that she didn’t hear, that it didn’t register. “I am sorry, Joseph.” She tried to remember the sermons Reverend Peters gave, looking up at him from the front pew as he spoke about heaven and hell. She didn’t understand it- she always tried to understand things, but now it seemed impossible to think of anything else except “why” and “what?”

What did death look like? What would she see when it happened, when her mother took her last breath? Was death a person, a being? Would he walk through the door and take her mother’s hand, take her away from her family- from _Elizabeth-_ and lead her somewhere none of them could follow? And what did he look like- was death dark and devilish, or was he beautiful and beaming, a bright white light, an angel? And if death didn’t come, what did? What was she waiting for? Would her mother’s soul leave her body and take flight? Was that all she was- not a soul, but a body? Was that all she had withered away to? Would her father tell her, if she asked nicely, with the manners her mother taught her. She was going to learn more when they hired a governess. Would he tell her what happened when her mother died?

Why was she left to figure out everything herself?

But when her mother died, there was only silence. Death did not come, but silence did. It opened the door after her mother inhaled one last breath, and it took her. Nothing extraordinary happened. There was no message from the divine. Angels didn’t sing, lightning didn’t strike the earth. Hell did not rise up through the hardwood floor. Death did not enter and take her mother away. Her soul did not take flight. Everything Elizabeth thought, everything she imagined, was wrong. Terribly wrong. Any or all of it would’ve been better than what actually happened. It would have been better than the terrible silence- her father did not speak, and neither did Joseph, and neither did she. _This is how death looks,_ a voice in her head whispered, _it is not beautiful, it is not divine or holy. It is a body in a bed._

That was what her mother became.

Brooks was dead.

He still held Elizabeth’s hand, his grip nonexistent, his arm suddenly limp, like a broken branch hanging off a tree. He looked impossibly young- younger than herself, younger than Mary. He looked as new and fresh as the snow outside, his bloodied face smooth and white. His eyes were wide open, staring at her, reflecting the candlelight. They were still glassed over in panic and fear. And his body seemed smaller than when they brought him, then when Joseph and the servant threw him onto the table. Was it because of all the blood he’d lost, spilled out onto the surface of the table, slowly trickling onto the floor like drops of rain against a window? Or was it because of how young he was? He was only a boy- he was a boy, and now he was dead. Now he had become a body. Not a boy, but simply a body. A dead thing. A thing that needed to be gotten rid of, buried or thrown away?

_The same way your mother was._

_The same way you will be someday_.

Elizabeth would not let him become one, for just a little while longer, for just this short moment in time. 

Death did not come again.

Silence did.

The room was silent as her father stepped away from the body, as Joseph stood in the corner, waiting to run. It was silent as Mary stood behind her, holding back her screams and sobs.

It was silent as Elizabeth slowly lowered herself. She bent over the table, until she was inches away from the body- from Brooks. Inches away from his stiff, terrified face. 

She moved the strays hair from his plaited queue away from his face- they had been sticking to his face while he cried, while he sweat. His skin was fresh and white and cold like the snow outside. Just as her mother’s had been.

She didn’t want him to look like a body. 

She wanted him to look like he was sleeping.

_It’s impossible, Elizabeth. This is not a problem you can solve. You cannot stop death._

_And not such a violent one._

Brooks was dead.

He was a boy who became a soldier, and he ran from the battle- he ran away, and he wanted to be saved.

She couldn’t give that to him.

No matter how hard she tried.

She closed his eyes, and accepted reality.

Brooks was dead.

The silence left just as quickly as it had come.

The major.

He stood in the open doorway, stepping into the candlelight and out of the darkened hall he had run down just mere moments ago. She and Mary had outrun him, had left him behind. He was still holding his sword in one hand, and the short musket in the other, at his side- the sword he had aimed at them, the musket he waved like a madman when he came through the wide open front door. But now, she was not scared of him. He was not the danger- not when death hung so heavy in the air, not when she was holding a dead body’s hand. He looked as defeated as she was. Was he more so? Had they won the battle?

Did Brooks die for nothing?

The major.

Brooks’ voice was still tangible, as fresh as his screams and cries. He had been screaming, when he died. His voice was shaking and unsteady, but it was as loud as gunshots, as cannonfire. He had used his last breaths to call out his commander’s name- fear had flashed across his face when he realized he’d been found. He was not being rescued, or saved. The realization had hit her outside the head. _He is a deserter. He has done a terrible thing._

And how could she blame him for it?

Brooks realized, and then he tried to run- he tried to leave. His arms tried to move and his legs tried to kick, but all his strength was gone. 

He decided to turn himself in.

“ _Major_!” He screamed, and it came out like a child’s cry, like a scared little boy. “Major, I’m here! Major! I’m in here!” He paused to take a breath. He sounded like her mother. “Major-”

And then the silence came.

The major.

“Major-” Elizabeth said.

He entered the room fully now, slowly stepping closer. She saw him, in full view- he was covered in blood from head to toe, most of it on his shirt, hidden under the blue coat. The coat belonging to the rebels- Brooks wore the same- his was thrown onto the floor in the chaos, beneath the table. _He is on your side,_ she had told herself. _He is a rebel, and so are you._

They were on the side that was losing, no matter how hard it was to admit. 

The major’s eyes darted across the room, his brows furrowed in concentration- it was as if he were evaluating them, trying to see who was friend or foe, if he was allowed to step closer, or if he was about to walk into a trap. When his gaze caught Brooks’ body, it didn’t leave it.

Another moment of dreadful silence.

Her father cleared his throat, rubbing his hands together in front of him- the blood had reached his wrist, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He wore his shirt the same way he did the night her mother died. It was the first time in forever that he looked like what he really was- not a rich, influential politician, or a rebel congressman. He was a physician. “Major,” he started, “are you alright, sir?”

His voice was so hollow it sent a chill up her spine, “Brooks- he is dead?”

Did he find it hard to believe, too? 

“Yes,” her father nodded grimly. “I am afraid he lost too much blood. I tried to save him, but it was too late by the time he got here from-” he stopped. “Where do you come from, Major?”

“White Marsh, sir,” he answered.

She and her father briefly faced each other- White Marsh was not far, practically just down the road. How close would the battle come? How could it come even closer? The British had Philadelphia- why were they so greedy? Why did they want more? Would they not stop until they chased Washington and his army into another state? Would they not stop until he and the entire army were dead and the land destroyed? 

_Yes, you foolish girl._

_That is how a war works._

_That is how they win._

“And is the battle done?” For a moment, her father seemed hopeful. “Has Washington secured a long awaited victory?”

The major shook his head.

“We lost, sir.”

She couldn’t pretend to be surprised. 

Her father sighed- he had been expecting that, wasn’t he? If the major wasn’t here to tell him, he’d receive news tomorrow from the nearest messenger Washington could send. 

He’d read it over his breakfast, swear as he cut into his meat. “Of course,” he muttered.

The major’s face held no expression- no loss, no defeat, no grief. “I am sure it was not the news you wanted to hear, sir. I apologize.”

“No,” her father agreed, “no, it was not, as I am on your side, Major. We all are.”

She looked away as the major’s eyes scanned the room once again- his gaze was heavy, piercing. Mary was behind her, using her as a shield. Elizabeth let her.

“Now,” her father took control of the room again, “may I ask examine you, young man? We do not- we do not want a repeat of what just occurred, do we?”

He was already thinking of Brooks as a body- a casualty. 

_Because that is what he is, Elizabeth._

_Let him go._

She was still holding Brooks’ hand.

The major didn’t move. “May I ask your name, sir?”

Her father held his head higher, “Congressman Joseph Walker, Pennsylvania delegate.”

An expression she couldn’t decipher betrayed the major’s face, his demeanor suddenly changing. He suddenly became more standoffish, the wall around him growing higher. 

“Major Tallmadge of the 2nd Dragoons, sir.” He said. 

Did the color leave her father’s face, or was she still hung up on Brooks?

_Elizabeth, please let go of his hand._

Joseph Walker turned on his heel, “Follow me to my office, Major Tallmadge. I shall examine you there.” Finally, for the first time since he had died, he looked at Brooks. “I will deal with the body later.”

“Elizabeth,” he ordered. “Wait outside. Take Mary with you.”

She watched as the major followed her father like a dog with its tail caught between its legs.

_Elizabeth, let go._

She let go of Brooks’ hand.

-

“Elizabeth?”

She had been waiting in the hallway, curled up on the bench outside of her father’s office, watching as the servants who were still awake slowly, quietly walked down the hallway, towards the exam room- towards the body. They were going to be the ones to make sure he was ready to be buried, that the blood was wiped off the table, scrapped off the floor. Mary had stayed behind, stayed beside her- she didn’t have to ask, never did. Mary was always beside her, always following, as if she knew deep down it was what Elizabeth wanted most. She did not want a servant. She wanted company. Especially now.

She did not want the last she had touched to be Brooks’.

It was getting harder to ignore the fact Mary was shaking, getting harder to ignore that she was exhausted. The night was growing shorter. Time was growing longer. _Let her go, Elizabeth_ , she told herself, _she does not retire until you do, and god knows when that will be? Your heart is still racing. Your pulse is still throbbing. Are you shaking, too?_

Mary was young, and had been since the first day she became Elizabeth’s companion, her loyal maidservant. She accompanied her mother, the previous holder of the post, but they had been alone, they had been together, since Mary was thirteen. She was barely seventeen. She was barely older than Brooks’.

_Why are you acting as if you are any older? You still have months before you reach twenty, Elizabeth._

They were all young, weren’t they? Mary, the soldier, herself?

And the major.

He didn’t look a day over twenty-five.

She had been waiting in the hallway, waiting for any sign of him, waiting to see if he calmed down, if he was still wild and unhinged, waving his sword and holding his pistol. Her father had dragged him away when Brooks’ body was still warm. “I need to see if he is running on pure adrenaline, Elizabeth,” he explained, tried to reassure her with a brush of the hand, “pure shock.”

“Does adrenaline hold enough power to make one a madman?” She asked.

“Perhaps not. War certainly does.”

And then he shut the office door.

“Elizabeth.”

Her father stood outside the office door, his look unchanged. His sleeves were still rolled to the elbows, his arms were still drenched in slowly drying blood. She looked for any sign of a new stain, a new wound- she hadn’t heard the major scream, hadn’t heard him groan or cry out in pain. Though her father still wore the dazed, glassy look in his eyes- the look for when he lost a patient, when he came back from a useless house call, from the side of a deathbed. She hadn’t seen in it what felt like years- when was the last time her father had treated a patient? When was the last time he practiced his medicine, and not his rebelling, his politics?

_Oh, yes._

He treated her mother.

“Yes, father?”

What was he going to tell her now? Was the night going to get better, or worse?

“The major would like to have a word with you.”

-

The major.

He sat on her father’s desk, his silhouette visible as she slowly opened the door and entered the room, Mary following closely behind. She didn’t know what she expected to see- would he have turned into a gentleman, all the bloodshed and violence that had arrived with him gone? Would it be as if he were here as a caller, a social guest? Was she naïve and desperate enough to pretend that was what this was? 

_No._

She would never forget Joseph dragging Brooks in through the kitchen door. She would never forget the pain and panic on his face as her father removed his coat, ripped upon his shirt to reveal the sea of blood storming underneath it. She would never forget the sound of the major’s footsteps, the sword held in front of her chest. She would never forget Brooks’ cries, his pleas for help. _“Major, I’m here! Major!”_

And she would never forget the look on his face, when he died- when he was still holding her hand.

When he was a body, and not a boy.

She had let go, but it would not let go of her.

Her mother’s hadn’t.

The major.

He turned his head when he heard her footsteps, and she suppressed a gasp- he was _shirtless_ , his torso completely exposed, almost shining from sweat in the candlelight. His coat and shirt were missing- had her father thrown it into the pile with Brooks? What would they do with them? Would they burn them?

Would he burn Brooks- would he burn the body?

He deserved to be buried.

No one deserved to be burned, but especially not him.

“Lord have Mercy,” Mary inhaled sharply behind her, recoiling as if she was seeing something gruesome. But she had, hadn’t she? Mary had never seen someone die. She did not know what it was like to see someone leave the mortal world, to lose the battle and go into the light.

And now she was seeing something entirely against the principles her Quaker parents had taught and raised her on. A stranger- no, a _man_ \- exposed, undressed. It was too much for her to handle.

All of it was becoming too much to handle.

_Send her away, Elizabeth._

But she was selfish.

She needed Mary with her, just for the night.

Just to get through it.

She couldn’t be _alone._

“Good evening, Major.” She said.

He averted his eyes from her as well, focusing on the bookshelf. “Good evening, Miss Walker.”

She almost let out a morbid laugh- even in the face of death, they were keeping up the formal facade. 

Would her manners make her mother proud?

“Are you alright, sir?” she asked, “My father said that the exam is over.”

“I am unharmed,” he replied. “Physically.”

“I am pleased to hear that,” the house had seen enough bloodshed.

_Have you?_

“He said you had a question for me, sir?”

She felt the urge to meet his eyes, to look at him- even if it wasn’t proper, even if she should have never looked at a man in such a state. She needed to see his face, needed him to see hers and know that she was there for him, she would give him whatever he asked for, whatever she wanted. It was the least she could do.

_It is all you can do._

Elizabeth looked at the major.

The major looked at her.

“May I stay night here, Miss Walker? It will only be for the night- well, the rest of it. It is far too late to ride back to camp and I- it is too dark outside to take Brooks with me. And I can assure you the army will compensate you for your trouble. I promise.”

She answered immediately, “Of course, major.”

Why did he think she would say no? Did he think she was cruel, did he think she did not care?

Did he not see how the war had touched her?

How it ruined her life?

Did it ruin his, too?

He almost smiled, let out a relieved, tired sigh. “Thank you, Miss Walker.”

“I am only doing what I can,” she said.

There was something in the air again- not sadness, not pain. Something kinder, something _lighter_ , as if a weight had been lifted off of her shoulders when she looked at him- he was not dangerous, he did not hate her. He was just a weary, worn soldier.

_So was Brooks._

She needed to get things into motion, needed to bring the night to an end.

“Mary, can you please get the soldier a clean shirt?”

Mary jumped at the opportunity to leave the room, “Certainly, Miss Lizzie.”

The room couldn’t fall back into silence, not if Elizabeth could control it.

“Why did you ask me, Major? My father certainly would have said yes.”

 _But how can you be so sure?_ She thought back to the look on his face when the major said his name. Was it anger? Was it resentment? Was it _hatred_? How could he hate the soldiers fighting for what he believed in?

“Because, Miss Walker,” the major said earnestly, “you are the lady of the house. It would be rude not to ask you.”

“Oh, yes,” why did it feel important when he said it? Why did it feel as if it was her purpose. “Thank you for being a gentleman, Major.”

“Miss Lizzie,” Mary returned, the shirt held out in her hands, her head lowered to the ground, “can you please give this to the major?”

It was a plain linen shirt- where had she gotten it so quickly? It couldn’t belong to her brother or her father. “Thank you, Mary.”

“Yes,” the major agreed, “thank you, Miss Mary.”

She still didn’t look at him, “Very welcome, sir. May I lead you to your room?”

It was time to let go of something.

“I will show the major his room, Mary.”

-

The major.

She lead him down the first floor hallway, out of her father’s office, and away from the exam room- away from Brooks’ body. He was let go, he was left behind. No matter how much it hurt, no matter how much it turned her stomach to imagine him lying there on the table, alone and cold. _You have to let go, Elizabeth. If you do not let go now, you never will. You will let it haunt you. You will let it consume you._

_Let go, Elizabeth._

She looked back as the exam room became further and further away.

The major didn’t.

He followed behind her, in his fresh shirt, holding his dirty jacket and waistcoat. He didn’t look around in marvel at the towering ceilings, at the paintings and portraits and hall tables, their surfaces covered in vases and valuables. He didn’t look at all of the closed doors- the guest rooms, the ballroom, the retiring rooms. The doors had been closed for years- why open them, if there were no balls to be thrown, no guests to invite to visit? They were a reminder of the life lost, the life she lived in the past.

The life before her mother died.

The life she had to let go of.

The major was immune to the charms of Walker Manor- it seemed as if he were looking at nothing, his stare vacant as she led him to the final room at the end of the hallway. “Here you are, sir.”

The servants hastily prepared it, lighting a fire, igniting the candles and bringing fresh pillows and sheets. Did they even have any- when was the last time they had entertained a guest? When was the last time this house had someone sleep in it besides _her_?

When was the last time she didn’t spend a night alone?

He craned his neck as he looked around the room, “Oh, this will do very nicely. Thank you, Miss Walker.”

“Is anything else you would like?” Why was she trying to find a reason to stay, to talk to him? “We have madeira wine and some fresh ale.”

“This will be all, Miss Walker.” He smiled at her. “Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Major.”

“Goodnight, Miss Walker.”

But Elizabeth didn’t leave.

She stood at the top of the stairs- the same spot she did as a child, when she snuck out of bed and watched as the ball ended, as the guests left the ballroom and scattered into the various guestrooms. Couples, hand in hand, kissing as they closed the door. Drunken gentlemen singing and slurring one last song before slamming the door shut. And her parents would leave the ballroom last, closing the doors and laughing as they marveled- at their house, at the beautiful life, and at each other.

Her mother would always catch her.

She would lower herself to the floor and pick her up, pull her close and whisper in her ear. “Nosiness does not suit you.” She’d tisk, but she knew her mother was smiling. “It is time for bed, my dear Lizzie.”

But she just wanted to make sure the major was safe.

First, he took off his boots, setting them beside the roaring fire. Then, he checked- checked to see if anyone was watching, checked to see if he would be caught. She relaxed her shoulders when he didn’t find her spot, her lookout. He knelt on the floor beside the bed, his hands clasped together, his head lowered-

And then, the major _prayed_.

“Stay with us, Lord, for it is evening, and the day is almost over,” his voice was hushed, the words soft and quick- he had it memorized, didn’t he? “I could ask the darkness to hide me or the light around me to become night, but even darkness is not dark for you, and the night is as bright as the day; for darkness is as light with you.”

 _Elizabeth,_ she was scolding herself, _leave._

She stayed.

“And I ask of you, dear Lord,” he paused for a moment- did he sense she was there? “I ask you, dear Lord, to guide Brooks’ soul and lead him towards- towards salvation. I ask that you keep him safe.”

She felt the urge to pray herself- would it help? Would it do any good?

_You prayed, and God still took your mother away._

“And I ask that- that providence provides, and the war he gave his life for will not be in vain. Grant Brooks salvation, and give us- give us the gift of liberty. Amen.”

_Amen._

The prayer and the night were over.

The major got up, and collapsed on the bed, laying on his side.

He started to _cry._

He cried, and it sounded like a child’s- it sounded like _Brooks_ . It was desperate and sad and it was defeated and it was _terrified._ He cried as if he had nothing else to do, as if all he could do was scream and sob and hope no one would hear him. He cried as if he was so overwhelmed with emotion it overtook him. 

She cried the same way-

The same way when her mother died.

When she had to let her go.

Elizabeth left the major alone

He was still crying when she left.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, that was something... huh? For some sick reason, I really enjoy writing about Elizabeth's childhood and her mother's death. It really shaped Elizabeth and the way she acts and the choices she makes, and her thought process. And poor Ben! What I love about writing SS&SP is that I get to explore Ben's psyche and how the war is taking its toll on him. Fun facts, because it's not an SS&SP scene if I didn't go down a research rabbithole: Reverend Peters was a real person and the rector of Christ Church, and the first part of Benjamin's prayer is from the Presbyterian Church, which his father was a preacher in! Thank you for reading, I am very proud of this scene! As always, you can find me and more SS&SP content on tumblr @tallmadgeandtea . Thanks once again!


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